


Vignettes of the Divine

by rocketpool



Series: And the Divine, Caught like Stars in Trees [5]
Category: Actor RPF
Genre: M/M, Vignettes, because sometimes you hurt your characters, but for the most part this is amusing, collated from LJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:15:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of pieces for various characters in this series, collated together to keep them from being lost and divided by character of focus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vignettes of the Divine

**Author's Note:**

> These were written over a long period of time, scattered about in different places. This seemed the best way to present them all.
> 
> Contains one scene that can be read as vaguely referencing someone having done something like self-harm in a previous (un-presented) scene. It's purposefully ambiguous.

**_Hermes_**  
Beginning is such a trite word --there's plenty of beginnings, wherever you look, all it takes is a certain point of view-- and I could tell you about the beginning, even if I wasn't there, even if Rachel is a better one to ask, but I think that maybe my own private beginning for this time around, re-beginning, reconnection - it's much more worthwhile, or what you're looking for anyway.  
  
Persephone --Jensen, always Jensen now, I've got to remember that-- was the first I found, the first I bumped into, of all things, in a botanical garden of all places (and how's that for beginning?); not that I hadn't known there were others wandering about, but I hadn't known that some were trickling back. I might have missed him, if I hadn't just been to see Hades --not that he would see me, oh no, with his booming voice and obsidian doors that refused to permit me entrance with still empty hands-- and it was the resonance, it was the smell, that glimmer of inner recognition from one soul to another, one he couldn't even consciously recognize... and me, well, I've never been able to leave well enough alone...  
  
~  
  
"You can't run away from everything," Robert says, squeezing Matt's shoulder as he up and leaves; Matthew could hit him for that (and he could too, he's fast enough to be gone and back before anyone could blink) but instead he kneels.  
  
He isn't sure what Lee thought he was doing, nor does he really want to think about it (after all, they got here in time, in plenty of time, of course they did, he's Hermes after all) so long as Lee's not doing anything stupid now, and fuck, fuck them all but especially himself, because he should have known, he should have seen it coming, he should have been quicker about it.  
  
"It'll be alright," Matthew murmurs, pulling Lee to him even if the man's only response is to tighten his shoulders and lean into him, "because you're going to go to stay with Jeff, with Hades, and we'll sort everything out, I promise, it'll be alright."  
  
~  
  
"You've been taking liberties again, Hermes, sneaking through my gates when I'm not looking; you could ask you know."  
  
Matthew pauses mid-step, the Ways Between blurring to a stop and snapping into place, and in the shadows behind him he can see a figure, can feel that it's a relative even as the shadows bend, the soft hush of wings giving birth to the shape of a man, a little pale but smiling; Hermes would know those prominent cheekbones and mop of dark curls anywhere.  
  
"Benedict," Matt says, cheerfully hugging him and giving him a kiss on each cheek, "it's been too long, you need to come to Portland!"  
  
~  
  
"Your tongue is not so clever as it once was, brother," Benedict says, the corners of his mouth curling up despite himself; it takes the barest amount of will to pass this small delight on, crafting good dreams where there would have been nightmares.  
  
Hermes --Matthew now, of course-- holds a hand to his chest as though wounded, but his eyes twinkle with the enthusiasm of boundless self confidence. "And yet you will come, and I'll make sure Rachel and Robert and Jeff keep you entertained."  
  
~  
  
I know what that look means, and ok, maybe it doesn't take being Messanger to the Gods to catch his meaning, but I take pride in my ability to understand the full eloquence of what Echo is saying without saying a word at all; he used to tell beautiful stories, words woven together so perfectly you could nearly see them, and even now, even after piecing himself back together, even after Zeus and Hera moved on, he still has no voice.  
  
Even his sighs don't make a sound.  
  
"You know me all too well," I say, smiling and patting my breast pocket, "and why yes, I do in fact have your travel accommodations to Portland here in my pocket..."  


~*~

  


**_Perseus_**  
Beth has to grin to herself. It's taken a lot of hard work, a lot more research than usual and a hell of a lot more time casing the place. But it's paid off.

The shoes she's holding in her hands are priceless.

Now, she's not the type to care about shoes. Not normal shoes. But these, these are ancient shoes, holding up remarkably well for their age, and with perfectly crafted wings arcing delicately back from the heel. They've never been seen in a museum. Hell, they haven't been seen for centuries, always kept in the Bomer private collection. Always. Though it wasn't always called Bomer.

"You shouldn't gloat," someone says, smooth like silk.

She's startled enough to turn, after all, she thought she was alone in the vault. Certainly she hadn't been speaking out loud. There's a man leaning casually against the wall, smiling smugly at her from under his very fine trilby.

Matthew Bomer. Funny. The vault door is still shut.

She narrows her eyes at him. Beth had been planning on taking a few more pieces as well, but now... She paces around him, moving around toward her back up exit strategy.

Bomer laughs, a soft chuckle of amusement. "Not gonna stop you sweetheart. If you can beat my guards off the property, you can keep what you can carry."

It sounds like a trap, or certainly, too good to be just that easy. Unfortunately, it was take that chance, or what? Turn herself in?

Beth finds her position and hits the trigger, the small ring of explosives beneath her feet blowing out the floor and dropping her down to the next floor.

"Sorry," she calls up as she finds her feet again and double checks she's still got the shoes. "Gotta run!"

She's dodged the guards as she makes her way through the innards of the building. It's easier than maybe she thinks it should be, though they're always just behind her. There was the close call in the stairwell when one of the dogs almost got her, when she fell over the rail. But the world moved in slow motion, like something held her up, floating like a paper airplane drifting downward until she startles out of the reverie of the moment and grabs hold of the railing four floors down. The world snaps back to real time, a rush of adrenaline and speed.

"Fuck," she hisses, because she drops one of the shoes as she pulls herself over. Down there's the main entrance, and about two dozen more guards. She isn't going that way.

Beth's got a slim lead, now. Except that someone's finally had the sense to turn on the alarm. Lock down won't be far behind, so she sprints, through one hall and around the corner to the elevator shaft. Not optimal, perhaps, but it is fun. Especially since the world does that slow motion thing again, which kind of trips her out but there's no time to think about it now, is there?

She slides out on the ground floor, just not where anyone will expect. Yet. She can hear the dogs in the halls, and it won't be long before they catch on. She takes the twists and turns as fast as she can, flying down the halls even as she hears the building start to lock down.

Finally. The service entrance, with the open bay for deliveries. Well, it's usually open. But the heavy steel security door is rolling down. Fast.

Again, she sprints, but the Fates must have other plans. Dogs burst through the doors behind her. One manages to tackle her, and they roll. She's never been so glad for wearing leather, never in her life. It's luck alone that lets her slip the coat.

But it also makes her drop the shoe.

Beth grasps backward for it even as she slides under the shuddering metal, and she finds herself thanking whichever god is listening that once upon a time she wanted to grow up and be Indiana Jones. She pulls her hand to herself in time to keep from losing it, the metal clanging into the ground. And all she's got in her hand is a feather.

"God dammit!" she screams in Bomer's general direction. Still, she tucks the feather away. He said he could keep whatever she carried out, after all. And she's still got a fence to jump.

~

She can't remember the first time. Beth was only very little, still small enough for her daddy to spin her in the air and put her on his shoulders, when he brought her to the movie theater across town and she saw Indiana Jones, tomb raider cum archeologist, on a big screen in the dark. She can't remember it, not really, but she remembers feeling it. The adventure. The magic. The adrenaline.

What she does remember is a trip to Disneyland, and being left alone in a hotel room that smelled like dryer sheets and chlorine with a big TV sitting on the dresser. Beth lay on her stomach on the bed, watching cartoons until the afternoon movie came on. The screen was smaller, but Indy wasn't. He was everything she remembered, running from one adventure to the next and kicking Nazi butt.

It had to be better than this, going to school all day was boring, and so was sitting in a hotel all alone when she should be getting her picture taken with pirates. They liked to get away with gold too...  


~*~

  


**  
_Psyche_  
**  
He stares at the bottle without really seeing it, yet all too aware of the spit of beer still sitting at the bottom; it'll do, in a moment or so, but it isn't what he wants. He can't have what he wants, not without going to see Hades, and Robert's words banging around inside his head won't let the fact that it's really an option lie still in his mind anymore.

Lee closes his eyes and tries not to think about it, about the cool waters of Lethe that would soothe his memories into nothing at all, nothing and nothing and nothing; so much family in one place can only mean trouble.

~

“It doesn’t matter, y’know,” Lee says with a voice scratchy from disuse, startling Jensen (he’d honestly forgotten the other man was there), “that we’re still us, that we stayed, none of it.”

Jensen’s not sure what to make of that, let alone what to say to him, but it’s the first thing Lee’s said to him since arriving so he says, “How do you mean?”

“People are still born, still die, the stars still hang in place, and no matter what we do, things still fall apart, still…” Lee whispers, but he breaks off, like his throat just closes around the words.  


~*~

  


**  
_Apollo (and Hyacinth)_  
**  
He misses her now, once bound so close by ties of blood and love (and sometimes hatred and jealousy, as all gods are given to, each in their own turn), misses the long blond curls and brilliant blue eyes, and the small smile she reserved for him and her deer alone. The world changed, but she valued her purity, valued the cypress as it stood, valued the feel of the bow in her hands, the satisfaction of an arrow finding its mark. She waited, for a time, waited for him to give up his grief, waited for the world to remember its old dreams, waited for them to stand on the hills and call for her, but none did; she faded, withdrawing, until there was only enough of her left to float on the wind, to say goodbye to him, her brother, her twin…

~

Chris isn’t sure what wakes him, naked in the gray half light, the world still fuzzy around the edges - perhaps the scent of coffee, or the fact that the spot in the bed beside him is empty. He shifts a little, rolling over, and sees Steve gazing through the window as the sun slowly rises, making his eyes sparkling blue, hair glowing soft and golden like a halo. The sunlight spills onto the bed and Steve’s eyes follow, a caress that Chris can all but feel, and he flushes warm at his expression.

~

It’s magnetic, mesmerizing, watching Steve on stage, like the man tunes out and becomes something more, something greater, something more… real and connected and Chris hasn’t got words for it. For the look on Steve’s face as he plays, the notes and the words all falling into place as a matter of perfection. The way his head falls back like he’s making love to the music and Chris feels small in comparison.

Finding out what Steve is (or rather who, cos Jesus, the man is Apollo) really doesn’t help any; Christian recognizes now that sense of power, of divinity, that comes together when he plays, fueled on by worship from the crowd. He’s just… just insignificant, and feels the fool for thinking that he could stand up to that, let alone be any part of it. Then Steven opens his eyes - they’re the color of the Mediterranean - and Chris doesn’t hear the lyrics so much as feel them resonating in his chest, in his very bones.  


~*~

  
 **  
_Pandora_   
**  
She gets blamed for a lot these days. Academics like to speculate on whether she's a symbol of a misogynist, patriarchal tradition to show that the only thing women were good for was breeding sons, or she retains the fear of what's to come so that mankind can remain sane in the face of day to day life. It's funny how the simplified version of the tale is the truest in spirit.

She fingers the small vial on the chain around her throat, forever stoppered, never to be opened. There was a time where she was a giver of gifts, but this is all she has now. She's been asked why she remains, and this is her reason. There at the beginning, and here until the end, or at least until mankind has passed on. Until the universe itself passes away.

She, above all others, would not be capable of abandoning hope.

Her luggage finally comes around on the carousel, and as she turns, a man touches her on the arm.

"Ms. McAdams?" he asks politely, and she nods. "Mr. Bomer sends his regards, and his apologies for not greeting you here personally. We've a car waiting for you to take you to your hotel. Welcome to Portland."  


~*~

  
 **  
_Dyonysus_   
**  
Once upon a time, he could have drowned in his cups. Nearly did, once or twice, once the believers dried up. He knew how to throw a party, but it's hard to do when no one shows. When even his kin drift apart to fade away or find new purpose. He drank less from joy or madness and more to be oblivious.

He knew he was in trouble when he looked up and even the satyrs had gone. Damn Christians.

There's some time that he wanders, no better than a vagabond. It could be a decade, it could be a century, or two. The world twists itself up, delirious in its violence as mankind crowds in upon itself, stretching out, claiming. Reaching in vain for a divinity the gods still harbor for themselves.

He contemplates fading away.

Instead, he decides to try sobriety. It's a crazy idea, for him anyway. Completely against his nature.

Once he gets past the shakes and the sweats and the hallucinations it's not so bad. It helps that he timed it to the American Prohibition, less because he couldn't just snap his fingers for alcohol and more because everyone else was miserable too.

And then one day, the idea of cleaning himself up wasn't so wretched. He stepped outside to find that humanity had reinvented itself yet again. Had found a new sense of joy, despite the heady balance of fear.

Of course... that's when the 60's happened...

~

Robert rubs his temple, and tries very hard not to think about just how much he wants a drink (funny how much that's come up since Matthew's slid back into his life like he still wears winged sandals); it occurs to him this must be what other people's family reunions are like, except with less the youngest niece showing up pregnant and married and more the Pacific Northwest could end up a crater.

"Shut up," he finally grinds out, glaring around the room so that he was including each and every one of them, "just shut the hell up and listen. Because this isn't worth going to war over, not any more, or do you think this is fucking Ilium instead of Oregon?"

~

He kisses her on the cheek as she embraces him, the vial hanging around her neck between them pulsing, almost warm, and for one moment (less, the pause between heartbeats) he's consumed with the urge to grab it, break it, to tear it loose and shatter it among them all.

He knows it doesn't work that way, that existence would lose something so vitally important instead of being bathed in it, and the moment passes.

"We've missed you," he says instead, holding Rachel for a few moments longer; she tightens her grip on him, just a moment, just ever so briefly, and some of the hollow feeling fades.  


~*~

  
 **  
_Ares_   
**  
Ares watches the warlord in the reflection of his sword, ignoring the man's attempt to engage him by complimenting his collection; he turns, smiling, and can all but smell the man's fear, which is just as well, even Aphrodite didn't like it when he smiled. "You should be much more careful when you instruct you lessers to steal from you betters," he says, the words almost languid with his displeasure, and he gestures to the weaponry. "Choose, and we'll see if you were worthy enough to make that gamble." 


End file.
